


The Size of Pockets

by boltlightning



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: The one good thing about the military uniforms is the size of the pockets.(Or: A vignette about Breda's tendency to over-prepare.)





	The Size of Pockets

**Author's Note:**

> i found this little one-shot that i wrote almost a year ago, and really enjoy it. it worked better on its own rather than in a collection, so here it is!

Breda is not the biggest fan of the military uniforms, and this is known. He thinks they’re clunky, obtrusive — the heavy fabric is stiff and uncomfortable, especially in heat, and the sleeves are detrimental to any sort of deskwork. On hot days in the office, Breda is the first to shed his jacket, even before the colonel, who wears fancy collared shirts under his jacket that are much warmer than Breda’s undershirts.

The one good thing about the uniforms, he admits, is the size of the pockets.

There are a few essential things Breda has on him at all times, regardless of when or where: a multipurpose pocketknife, a discrete flask of drinking water, a tightly-wrapped wad of old handkerchiefs, a penlight, and a lighter (for Havoc, or the colonel in the most desperate of situations). The crown jewel is a beat up old pocket watch he keeps on a rusty chain. Havoc had helped him gut the thing when the clockwork stopped running and replace the clock face with a mirror, like a compact. It serves as a way for Breda to check behind him when he is walking without appearing suspicious, though Havoc gave him beef for being paranoid.

If the team finds it odd, they never bring it up, though Havoc did like to poke fun. The team has never questioned the habits of one another out of respect for their privacy, which is yet another confirmation to Breda that he made the right choice in accepting Mustang’s promotion. Falman even presents Breda with a small leather drawstring bag for these items one holiday season, a small smile on his stoic face.

Still, Breda is self-conscious about it, and is secretive when he refills the flask on the military base. 

* * *

A mission is going poorly; the team, on their own, had been sent after another untethered alchemist suffering from the fallout of Ishval. As Mustang was the only combat alchemist in the area, he had been sent to deal with the defector. The entire team had vastly underestimated the situation.

A gas tank exploded in the confrontation, sending shrapnel flying. The team was safe behind the furnishing of the warehouse, but Mustang, attempting to talk him down, had been caught in the blast and knocked unconscious. Breda works fast, and uses his jacket to prop the colonel’s lolling head up. His side is darkening with blood, and as Breda cuts away the clothes around it with his knife, he reveals gashes where shrapnel had ripped through (but thankfully not skewered) his skin. Breda, hands shaking, douses the wound in water and cleans it with the kerchiefs. He is applying pressure with the bloodied rags when Mustang comes to, grimacing and groaning.

“Breda,” he rasps. His voice is surprisingly calm, but his face belies his pain. His brow, smeared with soot and grit, is knit tightly. “What happened?”

“You blacked out.” Breda makes sure the rags against the wound are secure, and reaches up with one hand to brush the colonel’s hair from his eyes. His skin is hot and slick with sweat. “Bastard hit a tank of gas and ignited it, somehow.”

“Hydrogen will do that.” The colonel smiles weakly, and Breda frowns. He is used seeing his commanding officer as he appears in the office: pristine, graceful, composed. Here, his composure is shattered, broken as Colonel Mustang struggles to speak through the pain and confusion. His breath is quick and irregular, which worries Breda, but Mustang is far more stubborn than others would think; he would not try to take it easy if the gods themselves asked him to. “Where’s the team?”

“Falman and Fuery went to get help. Havoc and Hawkeye are in pursuit.”

Mustang winces, but doesn’t ask him to elaborate. Breda isn’t sure what to say, so he adds, “Your uniform’s a little worse for wear. Sorry about that.”

“Ah. That’s the least of my worries.” The colonel smiles again, and brings a shaking hand to his chest. “How do I look, Lieutenant?”

“Honestly?” Breda fishes his pocket watch-compact from his pocket and opens it to him, letting the colonel grasp it in his bloody hands. “Like shit, sir.”

Mustang laughs, and immediately winces in pain; his hand shoots to his wounded side. “You’re a good man, Heymans Breda.” He grips Breda’s hand with his own. “Keep me alive until the medics get here.”


End file.
